


Yours, SH

by CdnGingerGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Epistolary, Fluff, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Major Character Injury, loracaique
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:50:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/CdnGingerGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place after season 3, John is gravely injured. Sherlock keeps a vigil at his bedside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours, SH

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loracaique](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Loracaique).



> This is my work for Loracaique, for the Johnlock Valentine's Gift Exchange. I hope you like it!

_221B Baker Street_

_London_

_3 June, 2014_

Dear John,

It’s been nearly a week since the car crash that took Mary’s life and put you in a coma. The research suggests that speaking to a coma patient doesn’t hurt, although there isn’t a lot to suggest it helps. Regardless, I have been forcibly removed from your hospital room by your doctors, and may not return until tomorrow. However, I cannot seem to stop speaking to you. It’s not the same; I know I spoke to you many times when you were not physically present, but I always knew you were returning. This time… well. We’ll not dwell on the negative.

I suppose it’s just as well I’ve been sent home. I spent four nights chasing down the driver who hit your car. Unfortunately, the man was only visiting Britain and has since returned home to his own country. Mycroft refuses to extradite him back to face charges; apparently, even he is bound by austerity.

I intend to visit you every day I am able. Lestrade has not contacted me with any cases this week, which is for the best, at the moment.

Despite my many comments to you in the past, John, you are the writer of the two of us. I fear these letters will be awkward, in spite of my best efforts. But your condition has scrambled my thoughts; my concentration is not as it usually is.

Even though I am visiting you every day, I feel the need to get my thoughts on paper, if only to organise them. When you recover, you can read about the time you spent unconscious. I refuse to consider the alternative.

Yours,

SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_4 June, 2014_

Dear John,

The doctors have informed me that your coma is, for the most part, medically induced. They are convinced that, rather than rest and allow yourself to heal, you will push yourself too quickly and delay your recovery. I’m not certain how they knew that, but they are absolutely correct.

When you read this letter, you will notice that I am writing it here in hospital. I’m not in your room; the doctors asked me to leave so they could do the Glasgow Coma Scale or some such test. Therefore, I have relocated to the morgue. Molly keeps looking at me sympathetically when she thinks I can’t see her. She forgets the doors are all reflective.

Mycroft has made arrangements so that I can visit outside of traditional hours, as long as I “behave myself”. His face was quite pinched when he said that. I’m sure you can imagine it.

I am forced to admit, however, that Mycroft is doing an admirable job of caring for your little girl. Mary’s close friend is on a cruise at the moment and cannot return before the end of the month, and I’m sure you would agree Harry is not exactly suitable. I admit, I never considered Mycroft as a parent, but he has taken to surrogacy very well. I want to be cynical, and say he is thrilled to have someone to mould in his own image, but even I admit that would be cruel. Your Annie seems to have quite won him over.

On that topic, I must congratulate you on your choice of name. I know your baby is half a year old, and I should have said it sooner. But I find myself irritated by these odd names with newfangled spelling. Six months ago Lestrade questioned a woman named D’an’a, pronounced “Deanna”. Why do parents hate their children?

Molly is clearing her throat now, John, so I suppose I should let her go home. I’m quite alarmed, John, at the changes you have wrought in me with your friendship. There was a time when Molly’s wishes would have been quite unimportant to me.

Yours,

SH

 

_221B Baker Street_

_London_

_6 June, 2014_

Dear John,

Before you berate me for missing a day of writing to you, I feel compelled to point out that the current time is 12:29AM. It’s hardly the sixth.

Mycroft brought Annie to visit yesterday. She looks so very like you, John, with her blond hair and blue eyes. Mycroft speaks to her very seriously, and not at all as I have observed most adults address infants. Or is she considered a baby now, since she is older than six months? When does infanthood end and babyhood begin? And then toddlerhood begins at age two? You need to explain this to me, John.

In my last letter, I asked why parents seem to hate their children. I have reconsidered and feel I have made too general a statement. You and Mary, for instance, clearly adore Annie. Despite your love of our lifestyle, you were intended to be a father. I have seen that it is primarily the mother who takes to child rearing immediately; fathers seem uncomfortable for approximately the first nine months. Perhaps there is a correlation between the length of human gestation and the time it takes for fathers to become comfortable with their offspring. But you were a perfect father immediately, John; perfect as you were in so many other things.

Are, I should say. You are still here, though not with me. For the moment.

But I digress. Your daughter, John. I am not overly fond of children, as you know, but yours is quite remarkable. She has your temperament, I have noticed; slow to anger, but when she does, she is not shy about making her feelings known! And she has Mary’s sense of humour.

On that subject, Mary’s funeral is today. I will attend, of course, as will Mycroft with Annie. I understand her friend is quite distraught it can’t be put off until her return, but she will not be back before the beginning of July and it is quite impossible to wait.

John, it is now nearly 2:30AM. I’m not sure why it has taken me two hours to write this letter, but apparently it has. I leave you, as always,

Yours,

SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_6 June, 2014_

Dear John,

I have just returned to your hospital room after Mary’s funeral. I feel I can say with complete honesty that it was much nicer than mine. More mourners, for one thing, despite her orphan status. And the sadness seemed more genuine than it was for me. The eulogy was delivered by the rector who married the two of you, and he did a reasonably competent job. Clearly he spent enough time with you and Mary that he remembered many relevant details about her, and was able to capture her spirit and her life.

The interment was as well done as one could wish for, I suppose. I have attended many funerals in my life (including, of course, my own), but the experience is very different when one knows the deceased, and, if I may say so, cares for them. I felt very odd the entire time, almost as if some tiny insect, a tick perhaps, or a spider, were biting me behind my eyes and in my guts. My head and my stomach both ached. The last time I felt something similar was when I saw you in the cemetery, John, when I was away. You know the occasion I mean: you and Mrs Hudson had just visited my grave, and you sent her away so you could speak to me alone. I ached then, too.

I counted no fewer than four international assassins there, however. They were on their best behaviour, which I’m sure Mycroft appreciated. I believe he is learning that it is difficult to manage international affairs with a child in his arms.

I really cannot get used to the change in Mycroft; Annie has quite captivated him. If the unthinkable should happen, I believe he would be an excellent choice for a surrogate parent for Annie. And I don’t say that simply because he is my brother; quite the contrary, as I’m sure you know.

I sat with Annie in my knee today, John. I believe Mycroft has wrought a bit of a change in her, and I hope you will approve. She is observant for so young a child. I believe she knows your face, even though you are currently in a passive state, and partially concealed with a cannula. The Internet offers conflicting research; some sites suggest babies recognise faces at six months, when their eyesight develops, while another posited that newborns can recognise faces almost within the first month of life. Regardless, Annie is well aware of who you are.

You would have been impressed with her, today. She sat quietly on my knee and held my hand, and didn’t pull at your lines or tubes. When I held her close to you, she patted your hand gently, and then looked at me, as if to tell me she was satisfied you were doing well and that we could go. Mycroft has since taken her home.

This seems a good time to address the request you made of me two weeks ago. John, I would be honoured to be Annie’s godfather. You constantly surprise me: first, by asking me to be your best man, and now, by trusting me with your child. With the exception of my parents, and possibly my brother, I can’t imagine another person with such faith in me.

It’s getting late and the nurses have been trying to hint that I need to leave. They think they’re being subtle; they’re wrong.

Yours,

SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_7 June, 2014_

Dear John,

I’ve only time for a short note at the moment. Lestrade has called me in, but he promises a quick case and assures me I shall be back before actual visiting hours are over. Mycroft had arranged for me to visit outside of them; however, I’m told other patients are complaining that their visitors are sent away while I get to stay at your side. However, I really don’t believe any of them have a strong argument; certainly not Mrs Jenkins, in the room next door. I don’t see why she’s complaining that her unfaithful husband has to go home every night. He’s planning to leave her; he’s only waiting until she comes home, since he knows he’d never get sympathy for leaving her while she’s ill.

Yours,

SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_12 June, 2014_

Dear John,

Lestrade is a liar. Either that, or he has no concept of the meaning of the word “quick”.

I haven’t seen you, or spoken to you, in nearly a week, and I am very reluctant to leave you, but I noticed a strange blurring in my vision as I made my way to the hospital this afternoon. I fear this means I need sleep. As well, I feel you would be disappointed in me if I didn’t take the time to sleep. Also, shower.

I promise to return tomorrow.

Yours,

SH

 

_221B Baker Street_

_London_

_13 June, 2014_

Dear John,

~~I regret to tell you~~

~~I’m sorry, but~~

I overslept, John. It is now 11:49PM and even I cannot visit you this late at night.

Yet one more way in which you have affected my life: I slept for ten hours, I ate upon waking, and showered, and went back to bed. I never would have done that before.

I’ve been making a list of all of the ways in which you’ve changed my life. I’m not convinced they’re all for the better, but I believe you would think so.

  1.  I sleep more. (I feel this is a waste of time but even I have to admit I feel better overall.)
  2. I eat more. (And better. Unfortunately, I have had to get three pair of trousers let out.)
  3. My musical taste has become more eclectic. (I’m not sure if this is a positive change or not.)
  4. I am more aware of people’s feelings. (The occasional discomfort is offset by the improved observation during cases.)



            4b) As a subheading of point four, I am more sensitive to people’s feelings. (There is some truth to the adage that one catches more flies with honey. I have discovered this is literally true as well as metaphorically.)

I think I’ll stop there for now. I feel the need for more sleep. (You’re welcome.)

Yours,

SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_14 June, 2014_

Dear John,

Lestrade came to visit you today. He seemed quite shocked at your condition. I wouldn’t have expected his reaction, since he has seen many corpses in worse condition than yours (not to imply you are a corpse; you are very much alive, still), but I suppose his close relationship with you accounts for his distress.

I asked him if he thought you had changed me, since we met and began cohabiting and working together. His answer was immediate: “You play better with others, Sherlock. You don’t have the lone wolf thing going on anymore.”

So I suppose that would be number five on the list:

5\. I can now work as part of a team.

However, I feel it should go without saying that you are my preferred teammate.

Yours,

SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_16 June, 2014_

Dear John,

Please forgive my absence yesterday. It was of no consequence, except that it meant I wasn’t able to visit you.

Mary’s friend has indicated she will be returning next week, since she will be able to disembark from her cruise in Nassau, and has booked a flight home.

I suppose she will be a serviceable parent to Annie, should the circumstances warrant. There is nothing objectionable in her past, not that either Mycroft or I could discover. She seems fairly unexceptional.

John, you have now been in the coma for nearly three weeks. The doctors keep looking at me with very determined looks on their faces; I know they want to discuss “possibilities”. I refuse to entertain their possibilities. I know they have reduced your medications and that you should be showing indications of stirring, by now; indeed, you should have been returning to consciousness a few days ago. The fact that you remain unconscious is worrisome, to say the least.

John, I know that at the beginning I told you that these letters were for you to read upon your recovery. Every passing day seems to indicate that this will not be the case. Therefore, I feel now is the best time to say the following, especially since it seems unlikely you will ever read this:

John, it would be the height of rudeness for you to die now. I haven’t told you about the idea I had for Annie’s summers off school. I have a cottage, in Sussex, with beehives.

I haven’t told you about the last three cases I’ve solved. You need to update your blog.

The last words I spoke to you were “I’ll be in the morgue.” These are not meaningful enough to be the last words between the two of us. They are, however, strangely reminiscent of the last words I said to you when we first met.

Finally, I haven’t told you that you, John Watson, are the most important person in my life, the only one who never stopped believing in me, who never doubted me, and who made me his best friend, and his best man, and a better man than I ever thought I would be. Or, could be.

Your SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_17 June, 2014_

My dear John,

I hope you don’t object to me calling you that. Now that it seems more and more remote that you will be reading these letters, I feel I can take a few liberties.

Since you are used to me going through your things, I searched your desk for a will. I knew you must have one; a man who has stared down death as often as you have, yet is as prudent as you are, would hardly be without one.

Thankfully, I found it, and it was up to date as well. John, you needn’t worry about anything at all, not about Annie, not about anything. I experienced a certain amount of panic when I saw you had named me her guardian; it’s no secret I know nothing about raising children. But if this is what you want, you who have placed your trust in me so often, if you trust me to care for your child, then I swear I will do my very best to fulfill your final request of me. I have not always respected your wishes; I invaded your privacy periodically, I never got milk, I deliberately played my violin in the middle of the night when you were trying to sleep. But I promise to do my best with your Annie.

I hope you will allow Mycroft to remain in her life. She has grown quite fond of him, and you should see how she clutches his lapel when she is anxious, and how he rubs her back to calm her. I have seen him speaking to his minions on his mobile while holding her on his hip; he keeps his tone even so as not to agitate her, while his words are fearsome indeed.

John, while I hope every day for your recovery, I am beginning to make peace with the possibility of it not happening. It is only that which gives me the courage to say,

I remain always,

Your SH

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_18 June, 2014_

My dear John,

Molly has been kind enough to let me use the shower in the staff room and to fetch me a few changes of clothes so I don’t have to leave the hospital.

As for sleeping, I am. Not well, and not in a bed, but a chair will suffice.

In a previous letter, I gave you a partial list of the ways in which you have changed me. Now that I have been named Annie’s guardian in the event of your death, I want to be certain you know how I will meet her needs:

  1. Take her to the zoo every day, so she can learn about different animals, their tracks and their diets. (You remember that case we had in Brighton? Your knowledge of desert insects was invaluable.)
  2. Teach her to observe, and then to deduce. (But with your empathy, she will be much better than I ever was.)
  3. Take her to spend time with Mrs Hudson, so she will grow up with a positive female role model.
  4. Not send her to boarding school, so she doesn’t grow up isolated as many of the children of my generation did.
  5. Show her your photo, and Mary’s, every day, so she knows who her parents were, and how extraordinary they are. (But I won’t tell her the killing parts of your histories until she’s older.)



My John, every day I feel you slipping away from me a little more. The insects are back behind my eyes, and in my guts, and this time they won’t leave.

Your Sherlock

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_19 June, 2014_

My John,

The doctors have told me they have moved you up the Glasgow Coma Scale from 8 to 10. They seemed very excited about this fact, and after a quick glance at your chart, I must agree, although I can’t say I am pleased that they cause you pain, in order to test your reactions. Surely there are better ways of testing responsiveness than jabbing you with a sharp object?

Regardless, I cannot deny I am pleased as well, although Mycroft continues to caution me against becoming too hopeful. I have passed your will to him; I know you wouldn’t be happy about this, but, should the worst come to pass, he can get it through probate quickly, with a minimum of fuss. Still, I cannot but hope for better than there is now.

Your Sherlock

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_20 June, 2014_

My John,

Although I hope for your continued improvement, I’m sure you can see by my mode of address that I rather believe you will never read these letters. I don’t suppose I will ever call you “My John” to your face; these feelings, such as they are, shall remain locked away. And, should you die, then it will no longer matter.

I believe that’s the first time I’ve used that word in reference to you and your condition: die. I’m told that by facing our fears, we can conquer them, but I don’t see how acknowledging your eventual death will help me. It remains the event of which I am most terrified.

John, I never told you about my time away. You never really wanted to know; I didn’t want to press you. But the two years I was away from you were the most difficult of my life. Without you to ground me, to listen to me, to pull me short when I was in danger of going too far, I felt my humanity, the very best of myself, sliding away. I never realised just how integral you were not only to my work, but to my life. While I was gone, I felt as though a door in my mind, the door which kept all the terrible parts of me hidden, the cynicism and the bitterness and the anger, the frustration with people and their petty problems, and the parts of myself that did things just to see if I could, that pushed my limits, but negatively…

I’m not explaining myself. This is what happens when you leave me, John: I am discombobulated, I am undone. I know that last time I left you, but this time you have left me, and I am adrift.

Your Sherlock

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_21 June, 2014_

My John,

Mycroft has been reading my letters. He has had the audacity to suggest that it seems I am blaming you for your injury and present condition. Much as it pains me to admit it, he is correct. Perhaps it would have been better for me to say that you are away from me, but have not left me.

However, should you die, I will say that you have left me. I expect you to fight, John! You are a fighter, you have been your entire life. And I would be most disappointed ~~and disgusted should you choose~~

No. Once again, that is blame. Please, fight for me. The entire time I was away, you were in the forefront of my mind. I could not have continued, and done the things I did, without the knowledge that you were still alive and whole.

(Although I had an intellectual understanding of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and believed I understood the reason for your nightmares… I will only say that there is a vast difference between intellectual knowledge and first-hand knowledge.)

John, today I was present when the doctor jabbed your finger to measure your response to pain. I believe I saw it twitch. I will continue to believe that.

Your Sherlock

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_27 June, 2014_

My John,

Words cannot express how furious I am that I have been kept from your side for a week, but I hope you will agree it was for a good cause.

Mary’s friend has returned from her cruise, and attempted to stake her claim to your child, as it were. Mycroft and I took one look at her and we have decided she is eminently unsuitable to raise your child. She does not seem like a caring person, John. She seems cool and uncomfortable around children. Annie cried when placed in her lap.

But worst of all, in my opinion, is that she has no sense of adventure. Annie would not lack for essentials, and would certainly get an excellent education with this woman (Mycroft would see to that). But she would not nurture Annie’s curiosity, which is evident even now. She would not let her experiment if it meant getting dirty or ruining her clothes. She would not let Annie follow her thoughts to their logical conclusions. She is very much the type of woman who would not appreciate the question “why”.

I cannot believe it took nearly a week for Mycroft and me to convince this woman of the existence of your will, that you indeed trusted me with your daughter. (Apparently I made a very unfavourable impression on her at your wedding.) Although the word “freak” never crossed her lips, it was clear she was thinking it. Nevertheless, she was convinced your will was false, in some way. Only a call from your solicitor convinced her otherwise, and that was difficult to arrange, as he is involved in a civil case at the moment. As well, Mycroft had to reimburse her for the cost of her flight, and even I feel that was unfair.

On the subject of your daughter, she continues to do well with Mycroft. I was unaware that small children changed so quickly. I have only been paying close attention to her for less than a month, and I can see she is more aware, more interested, more developed overall. Is this normal infant development? Or is your child exceptional?

Mycroft brought her earlier today, and she sat very gravely in my lap. She is an excellent listener, and I am convinced she understood me when I explained that you had once again moved up on the Glasgow.

This week, while I was dealing with Mary’s “friend” (I use the term loosely; I cannot believe a person as dynamic and spirited as your late wife would find this woman interesting at all), you have made considerable progress. The doctors tell me you have opened your eyes several times, although not for very long, and that you have begun moving your fingers on your own, no longer in response to painful stimuli.

I am convinced you are going to recover. Mycroft remains conservative in his hope, and keeps a copy of your will in his breast pocket in case he suddenly needs it. I do not need to tell him he is being pessimistic, just as he doesn’t need to tell me I am the opposite.

Molly sat with you while I was away. I have already sent her a suitable token of thanks (photo attached). I thought there was a limit as to how much chocolate the female body could absorb, but the sales person assured me this was not the case.

Your Sherlock.

 

_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_

_London_

_28 June, 2014_

My dear John,

I considered censoring my letters, or at least rewriting them, as it seems likely you will now be able to read them.

John, today you opened your eyes and looked at me. You looked into my eyes and I am convinced you recognised me.

You must fight, John! Annie needs you. Mary’s memory needs you.

But I need you. I need you to write awkward prose about our cases, and I need you to feed me, and I need you to tell me when I have crossed one of those invisible social lines. But most of all, I need you to believe in me, and tell me you’re my best friend, and tell me I’m one of the people you love most in the world, because I believe I can say unequivocally, that I return your feelings most wholeheartedly.

I may not ever be able to say the words, John. But I hope you never doubt the depth of my feelings and regard for you.

Your Sherlock

~~

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock pulled the blanket off his head and looked at Mycroft standing in the door, holding Annie in his arms. He hadn’t wanted to leave John’s side, but even he couldn’t sleep in chair every night, and the couch in Molly’s office was convenient, and comfortable. He had his bundle of letters tucked into his coat pocket.

“Sherlock. He’s awake. He’s asking for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> information on the Glasgow Trauma Scale can be found at http://www.trauma.org/archive/scores/gcs.html


End file.
